


If Not by Midlight

by Ambrosia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ear Kink, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, this smut turned into plot turned into fluff, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2776781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrosia/pseuds/Ambrosia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, I hate this," she finally sighs, which throws him completely off course. She hates—hates what? "If you were Dalish, I'd hunt down the finest pelt I could get my hands on," and then she sighs, again, and puts her hand against her temple. "Problem solved. Romantic interest declared. Not that I'm the most traditionalist Dalish girl that's ever walked Thedas."</p><p>Lavellan's words break his mind so completely that he nearly stumbles over his own two feet.</p><p>“Could you ever,” she asks, wincing. “Could you ever see me like that?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Not by Midlight

Their beginnings are slow. Mostly small smiles, chess games, late nights discussing war strategy. Lavellan knows much about small-scale ambushes and silent combat that comes naturally to the Dalish, but knows nothing about troop movement and mass-legion formation. One day she's looking over his shoulder at his battlements and scouring through the maps and points out a high-ground that he hadn't noticed. They learn much from each other.

“You’re impressively well-traveled,” Cullen says a few days later, as he stands near the troop encampments in Haven and Lavellan is doing her usual evening rounds. She's leaving for the Hinterlands in the morning. “Er, I meant, for a Dalish, of course. That is not to say that a Dalish _isn’t_ well-traveled. I just mean to say that you have obviously... been around.”

He manages to stop himself before he does something remarkably stupid, if only just. 

She raises an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t sense any anger or ire in it. “You’re remarkably observant,” she says, smiling. “For a human.”

Cullen takes this as a bit of a jibe, but also as a hint of forgiveness for his clumsy tongue: really, that he calls himself Commander of this Inquisition and still stumbles over his words doesn't surprise him in the least. It's how he's always been, and probably always will be. Lavellan asks him about his people's performances and they stray to much safer topics, but Cullen does not forget the sly smile or the hint of something underneath it. Either way he finds himself smiling as she takes her leave, this person that has just shoved her way suddenly into every aspect of Haven's day-to-day business without anybody noticing. She barely even comes up to his chin, yet Cullen can't help his smiling.

They are each consumed with amassing several different armies into one well-oiled Inquisition. It is a long process, and hard. Favors are traded, pilgrims aided, allies won and lost because of the shifting in the political tides. Lavellan gathers her little band of, if Cullen's being perfectly honest, vagabonds and miscreants— and Varric Tethras, no less. She's often gone for weeks, not that Cullen has the time to notice. He's busy turning farmers, elves, dwarves, mages, ex-templars, and merchant's children all into something that looks like a half-prepared military force.

Lavellan returns each and every time looking bruised but happy, and the sheer amount of people that come out of the woodwork when the horn signaling the arrival of her party surprises Cullen every time. "Well," she tells him, as she slides off her wild Hart. "I'm alive."

She's said the same thing the last four trips, and Cullen can't help the stupid smile on his face. "You always seem so surprised."

Their time crowded around the War Table is often the only time that they get to share the same space, other than the rare few occasions where she seeks him out in the snow. She tells them all of the people she meets and the movements of the enemy, though they have yet to show their faces. Every day, they get closer to closing the Breach. 

Weeks pass. Cullen reads near-constant reports of Lavellan closing rifts across Ferelden and Orlais, gathering more supporters and supplies by the day— particularly elfroot, though he doesn't know why. She never seems to come back from a mission without bags full of the stuff. Leliana and Josephine bicker in the way that they do, with no venom, over the War Table while Cullen trails his hands over Lavellan's marker, already thinking of the next time she'll slide off her Hart with that grin on her face.

They gather enough support to make a move on the Breach, two months in. It has surprisingly little resistance. And then they find out why. It is so cruel, so  _unfair_ , that it should be just hours after they have closed the Breach, hours after they've returned victorious to Haven and Lavellan and her party are celebrating with everyone else and even Cullen feels the urge to bask in some of the joy. Except he hears the bells tolling from their watchposts in the north and south, knows what that means, and runs out into the courtyards to muster his people. "Forces approaching!" he commands. "To arms!"

By some miracle, the majority of their forces respond. If the attack had come an hour later, they would probably all be too drunk to be much use, but Lavellan's whole party comes crashing down to Haven's gate, Lavellan at the lead, weapons already drawn.

"One Watchguard reporting a massive force," Cullen says. "The bulk of it is under the mountain."

Josephine, next to him, asks, "Under what banner?"

Cullen says, "None."

This seems to surprise her. " _None_?"

Haven has four catapults for specifically this reason, and all of them are already calibrated for the mountain. But Cullen estimates that army to be somewhere in the three to four thousand range: at present, the Inquisition doesn't even have half of that. And Haven was not built to withstand a siege. It's a stop on a pilgrimage, at best.

"Cullen," Lavellan demands. "Give me a plan. Give me anything!"

"Haven is no fortress," Cullen tells her, already thinking of ways to slow the approaching army. "If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force with everything you can."

Cullen rallies the rest of his people, not in the Inquisitor's party, just as Leliana sends out her spies and Josephine gathers all of the diplomats still in Haven. They hold their own, for a time, but Cullen knows that this is no place to hold off an invasion. Soon comes the time when that damned Archdemon appears and turns the tide, and they have to withdraw into the Chantry. It goes unspoken among their people, but they all know that they have minutes before they meet Andraste and the Maker.

"Lavellan," Cullen tells her. "The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the trebuchets," he says, though even he is grasping for the barest of hope, at this point. "Cause one last slide. We're dying, but at least, at least we can choose how."

He sees Lavellan consider this. "Right," she says at last. "Don't wait for me. Head for the hidden pass."

Cullen's nodding even before she finishes and is handing out orders already, to head for the secret passage and to take as many wounded as possible. He's halfway to the other end of the Chantry before he stops, realizes that there is a very high likelihood that they will all die, but an even greater chance that he is sending this— this, _Lavellan_ , this woman who barely comes up to his chin, to her death. "Herald?"

She's still standing where he left her, tightening her braces and her pack, adjusting her weaponry and gathering her companions. She turns to look back at him and Cullen sees nothing of the fear that he knows he's wearing. "Yes, Commander?" 

As always, his words leave him. They're never where they should be. How does a person say  _I'm sorry that I'm sending you to your death_? She isn't even, she's Dalish, would it be an insult to give her one of the typical Andrastrian blessings? He doesn't know the Dalish versions, half-wishes he'd had the foresight to ask. "I— good luck, my Lady."

His expression must convey everything that his stupid tongue doesn't. She seems to steel herself and nods. "And you, Commander Rutherford."

He doesn't ponder the use of his full title. He just watches Lavellan and those with her as they push the doors to the Chantry open one final time, while his people run past him and people start calling for him. He waits until the last possible moment before he looks away. He is the last to leave the Chantry, other than those that are so close to death that their last breath will leave them before the avalanche smothers them.

And then Lavellan nearly freezes in the snow, but Cullen is the one that spots her from across the valley. Running in three feet of powdered snow is difficult in full armor but he somehow manages to do it, scoops her up in his arms and holds still as Cassandra wraps a fur blanket around her shoulders and tries to ignore the way that she's shivering in a violent way and that her skin has taken an awful blue tint to it. He pushes his way through the camp and straight to the healers tent, barely setting her down before he's being pushed back out again.

They don't let him in for hours. It feels like years. 

"You should be proud, Curly," Varric tells him, and gratefully hands Cullen a cup of something that's at least warm, if not too strong on Cullen's empty stomach. "We won. Big hurrah. Mark this one down for the best-seller list."

Cullen grimaces, almost gagging the ale down. "But at what cost? All of this was for nothing if she dies from the snow."

Thankfully, Lavellan doesn't die. For three days and nights, she's too sore to leave her bed. Cullen doesn't have much experience with treating frostbite but trusts that the healers of this region do— he can do nothing but hand out orders for scouts to be placed around the perimeter. They won't be able to withstand an attack if it comes, but with any luck that last slide buried their enemy.

The bickering between the three advisors builds and builds until it erupts, simply because there's nowhere to turn their fear and frustration but onto each other. They've survived, barely, but took significant losses of assets and supplies, though most of their people made it out. Cullen tries to convince himself that this is the important part, but after three days in the snowcapped mountains with only the food that the Huntsmen in his service can scrounge up, the path ahead is looking just as daunting as the path behind.

As soon as the Inquisitor is cleared from the healer's tents, and proves that she can remain standing upright for more than a couple seconds, what's left of the Inquisition makes its way to Skyhold. _Lavellan_ becomes _The Inquisitor_. And, somehow, then comes the ‘I’m glad you didn’t die in that massive avalanche’ and the ‘I’m glad too’. He tries not to let himself dwell on their conversations, but he can't help it: with Lavellan there always seems to be words that he wants to say, but can't force out. Every time she takes her leave, he wants to call her back. Every evening, after their War Councils, he has the instinct to catch up with her in the hall, just for a moment, and ask how she's fairing. But he hardly ever does. Perhaps gathering allies and fighting ancient un-killable foes, whomever they may be, surviving a massive avalanche and not dying to severe frostbite and starving consumes most of their time and energy. 

Cullen barely seems to blink and they have nearly settled into Skyhold, completed the next group of recruit's training and have more pilgrims coming in by the day. His duties increase and he starts sleeping less— which in turn, unfortunately, makes the absence of lyrium all the worse. He starts confiding in Cassandra: all his fears, his doubts, his need to have someone keep an eye on him. He's seen too many exiled from the Order to doubt what could be next. 

And oddly enough, Pavus pushes his way into Cullen's little sphere of duty and endless responsibilities. Dorian somewhat reminds Cullen of Lavellan, in a strange way. They play games of strategy in the courtyard at least twice a week and Dorian tries his absolute hardest to make Cullen blush, apparently. Well, he's no worse than Iron Bull and Varric, in any case. Cullen finds that he actually likes taking off the mantle of _Commander_ , even if it's only for twenty minutes. 

"Cullen," a voice says two months after they found Skyhold, and he looks up and finds that the Inquisitor is standing in his office, slightly out of breath.

"Inquisitor," Cullen says. "You've returned from Val Royeaux—"

"Yes," Lavellan tells him, not letting him finish. " _Abelas_ , I'm— I'm sorry, I thought that we could talk," she tells him, letting that sink in to his brain which just hasn't caught up with him yet. She seems to give her next words a lot of weight. " _Alone_?"

Cullen's brain has no response, not for a good three seconds. "Alone? I mean, of, of course!"

The ramparts are almost always clear this time of day, except for the Guardsmen posted in the towers, and even then they are more concerned with threats outside the walls than who their Commander is walking with in broad daylight. Still, his hands are practically shaking as he leads the Inquisitor outside, mindful of her every move and making absolutely sure that he doesn't get anywhere near her. His heart is pounding so loud in his ears he could easily mistake it for heavy drums. Ridiculous. She's— she's the Inquisitor. He should not be feeling nervous as the leader of her military force. 

"It's, uh," Cullen starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's a nice day."

 _Maker_ , he could throw himself off the ramparts right this very second. Lavellan tilts her head and furrows her brow. "What?"

Andraste preserve him. "It's— there was something you wished to discuss?"

For once, it is Lavellan's turn to struggle with words, apparently. He's seen her go up against Merchant Princes and Red Templars and hired thugs and corrupted politicians, a few times, as well as an Old God, or whatever the Elder One classifies himself as, but Cullen has never seen her shrink down like she does right in front of him, shifting from one foot to the other. She ducks her head down and fidgets with her fingers and seems to gather herself and lose her will several times. 

"Oh, I hate this," she finally sighs, which throws him completely off course. She hates—hates what? "If you were Dalish, I'd hunt down the finest pelt I could get my hands on," and then she sighs, again, and puts her hand against her temple. "Problem solved. Romantic interest declared. Not that I'm the most traditionalist Dalish girl that's ever walked Thedas."

Lavellan's words break his mind so completely that he nearly stumbles over his own two feet.  _Romantic_... Interest?

“Could you ever,” she asks, wincing. “Could you ever see me like that?”

He does. _Maker,_ he does. It hasn't been often, but even he has reached the point where he's allowed himself the occasional daydream. Long, cold nights in his tower when no one else except the Nightguard are awake, or when Cullen had volunteered for a watch when the Inquisitor was recovering from her near-freeze after Haven. Simple, silly nothings, embarrassing Chantry-boy daydreams where he manages to get her to smile with a gift or where she confesses her secret feelings for him, when she thinks she's alone and no-one can hear. But those are late-night thoughts, never something that was supposed to come into reality.

So he can't get the words out of his stupid mouth. “I, I can. I _do_. I have, for some time.” 

It almost seems unreal to him, the fact that the Inquisitor sees him in such a way. He’s made mistakes, so very many of them. And it seems odd to him that after everything, each sequential event, each painful memory, each morning he wakes up with a scream stabbing at his throat, each struggle: led him to this moment also led him to her. He can barely even walk along the ramparts with her without his ears growing bright pink with blush. Lavellan smiles: not the smirk, not the toothy show she gives to intimidate, but something else entirely. Something he's fairly sure she hasn't shown anyone else.

Her surprised smile could light the noon sky for a hundred years and Cullen has just enough time to think that _this_ is a moment where he should do something, or say something, something profound or something worthy of this, them. Perhaps he could even step in to press a kiss to her cheek, that wouldn't be too forward, would it? He half does it, he's already stepping forward.

And then, because the Maker is punishing him, "Commander!"

Cullen freezes, realizes how close he and Lavellan are, far too close for the Inquisitor and her Advisor and he turns to one of his Lieutenants and hisses, " _What_?"

"You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report?"

Cullen banishes the scout with every bit of venom he possesses and turns back fully intent on resuming what they'd been so rudely interrupted from, only to find that Lavellan has pressed a single one of her thin fingers to his lips, smushing them in a way that he's sure looks ridiculous. She has a glint in her eye. "Later?"

Cullen doesn't say anything, for fear of scraping his teeth along her finger, or embarrassing himself more than he already has. But he nods. He's never nodded more enthusiastically at something in his life. 

She departs, down the ramparts and towards the Inn. They don't get to the _later_ , that night, as an urgent message comes from Hawke's Warden contact in Adamant Fortress. Adamant is amassing an army. It falls to Cullen and Leliana and Josephine to muster the Inquisition's army and march them to support the Inquisitor. 

Cullen hears a lot of what happens second-hand. It's a week's march to Adamant and will take more than that back, plus the six days that it takes to plan the siege and capture the fortress. While the siege is relatively successful, they have more wounded than they know what to do with, thanks to the demons. It doesn't help that the Inquisitor disappears into a green portal after destroying a massive demon and isn't anywhere for nearly three harrowing hours, only to pop right back out of the green portal again. Afterwards, Cullen is constantly surrounded by his soldiers and Lavellan was wounded, not significantly, but enough that she and the others had needed rest. With all that is happening, with their troops, with the Wardens, Cullen barely has a second to breathe before someone is yelling for him somewhere in the encampment. On the second night after the Inquisitor's return, Cullen is busy reading his many,  _many_ updates from his network of Lieutenants scattered all over Southern Thedas when he hears a rustling to his left.

His update from Skyhold flops over in time to see the Inquisitor sneaking through the flap in his tent. "What are you doing?"

She freezes, caught. She has a bandage around her middle from the scrape she had taken from the Demon. "Making a break for it, obviously."

"From the healer's tent," he muses, tossing the letter aside. "To the Commander's. Possibly the unluckiest escape plan ever conceived."

His serious frown would melt into a smile faster if it weren't for the way she was favoring her left side. He knows that wince well. He stands, moves around his camp desk and makes sure that the tent flap has fully sealed behind her. She's limping a bit when he turns back— and it occurs to Cullen that this is the first time that they've been alone since that day on the ramparts. Since, well. Everything. 

And Lavellan seems to have that thought after a moment, too, because she freezes halfway to his desk. 

"I have," Cullen starts. "I have a question."

Lavellan sends him a look. He apparently has her attention. 

Cullen clears his throat and moves away from the flap, a thought occurring to him that there is a sentry just outside and Maker knows how many soldiers gathered around the fires not far away. It wouldn't be unusual for someone to be within hearing distance.

"So," he tries. Stops. Tries again. "So, if I were Dalish," and he pauses there to see the access the look on her face and is relieved to find that she's not immediately outraged. "And you, another Dalish elf, brought me a pelt, which I'm sure was the absolutely finest pelt that has ever been presented to any, well, Dalish elf, how would I go about accepting this offer, of, uhm, courtship?"

Lavellan has frozen, and Cullen panics because he's frozen too, and his face is red, he's sure of it, he's sure that he must be as red as a fresh tomato. "You'd—," Lavellan starts, looking a little breathless. "You'd craft me a gift. Anything, really, it's the act of presenting it that counts."

He steps closer, though they were already only two feet away from one another in the first place. His gaze falls. "I don't have anything, right now. I'm sorry. And I've never been good at making anything. All I know is how to maintain templar armor and train initiates. And plow fields. I can make a fairly decent stew."

Lavellan doesn't even really let him finish his train of thought. She goes from shifting the way her weight has settled on one leg to the other to pulling his face down to where she can reach, and presses her lips against his. It's not, not something out of Varric's smutty novels or every scarce daydream or demon's nightmare that Cullen has ever had, but she slightly tilts her head so that they slot together better and Cullen is lost. Again, and again, and again, each kiss lasts longer than the last one. She pulls back and sighs and presses her lips against the other side of his mouth, along his chin, against his skin. Cullen opens his eyes again, tries to focus on her face. He nuzzles his nose against her cheek and shifts so that he can pull her closer to him, for more, more heat, more of everything while Lavellan pulls at his shoulders.

Cullen feels like a Templar again, or at least what he knew Templars certainly did at the Circle Towers. He'd never understood it when he was an Initiate in the Order. How could someone throw away their honor, their loyalty, for something so silly as a stolen moment with a mage? Now here he is, more than a decade after he joined the Chantry and tip-toeing around his own command tent, hoping for a moment of privacy to hold the Inquisitor's face in-between his hands and kiss her in a way that does things to him that he probably shouldn’t admit in public.

"Inquisitor?"

Lavellan groans, lips still pressed against his. She pulls back, " _Fasta vass_ ," she whispers, and Cullen  _knows_ that is Dorian's doing. "Can they not give me a moment to myself?"

"They'll wake the whole camp," Cullen tells her. He's sure whichever poor sentry had a watch on Lavellen is panicking like a headless chicken right now, maybe having started their hourly rotations only to find the Inquisitor gone from her sickbed. As much as he doesn't want the moment to end, he knows that he'll be the first they come to when the alarm goes up.

Lavellan sighs and extracts herself from his arms. "I know. This escape plan was an utter failure." 

Cullen shrugs. "Perhaps not a  _utter_ failure."

The six day journey back to Skyhold goes quickly, and with little fanfare on their return. Cullen already has a pile of paperwork waiting for him on his desk so high that it's started sliding off the sides. He spends every waking hour trying to carve it into manageable piles, but with the fall of Adamant Fortress, they have even more requests and supplies coming in. If he didn't hate himself so much, he might assign himself a personal assistant just to help tame the chaos. 

A bigger issue, however, are the War Council meetings. Every evening, as usual, though perhaps longer than what was normal before Adamant. Before, Cullen could focus. Not only did he know the innermost workings of his people, he knew the goings on of Josephine's and Leliana's, as well as the Inquisitor's movements when she was out in the field. He was perfectly capable of multitasking. 

Now, however, his concentration is shot. Lavellen's fault, he's sure. Before, it just affected him in the early hours, when he was halfway to dreaming, but now— it's more intense. They both know the truth, now. And there's something to be said about sharing a glance over a War Table or a meaningful look in the hallway or the courtyard and having to wait and cool the heat for an hour, sometimes two, before being able to sneak away. If they  _are_ able to sneak away at all. 

He's the Commander of the Inquisition. She's the Herald of Andraste and Inquisitor of the Second Inquisition. When they do actually manage to sneak away, they have only moments before someone comes looking. Soldiers for him, and everybody else for her. Stolen kisses are all they have time for, and even then it does not seem to fulfill either of them. Cullen's always left with an acute sense of loss, each time being more difficult to pull away when they hear the tell-tale sound of boots on stone as it grows louder. 

When things progress, as they tend to, intimacy between them consists of huddling under the covers in his Tower because there’s still holes in the rafters and the air up in Skyhold is always cold no matter the season. It starts out honestly enough, not that Cullen isn't familiar with intimate relationships— not that he's  _too_ familiar, of course, he was a Templar for most of his adult life. But he and Lavellan have been dancing around this _thing_ , whatever it is that is between them, for months. He's never really noticed before, how much they gravitate towards one another: in the War Councils, at meals, on the ramparts, in the courtyards. It seems no matter what, he always ends up at the Inquisitor's side. And it feels like the most natural thing in the world that long nights and early mornings spent bent over Cullen's desk slip easily into the Inquisitor claiming she'll just rest her eyes for fifteen minutes, which turns into an hour, which turns into Cullen offering her his bed upstairs. Not like he'll be using tonight, anyway, judging by just how many people have requested Inquisition aid.

She seems to contemplate it for a moment, in the way that she does, brows furrowing like she's having to think hard about something. They both should be sleeping more, if the shadows beneath her eyes are any indication. "Will you come with me?"

"I," Cullen starts. Stops again, has to swallow the thing that's suddenly blocking his airway. "I don't think that would be, it wouldn't be appropriate—" 

She gives him a look. "Commander."

He clears his throat. "Right."

He extinguishes the candles and locks the three doors to his tower just for good measure and follows her up the ladder, where he finds her already shivering under his covers. He removes the outermost layers of his uniform but keeps the shirt and trousers on, just to cling to what little propriety he can, and slides under with her. Because of the chill, they both seem content to just share each other for body heat, but, well, he's not infallible. He  _is_ a man, after all, and the heat shared between their bodies eases the stiffness in his muscles and the curves along Lavellan's back as she presses herself against him, he can't help it. His cock swells even as he focuses as hard as he can on something, anything— the Chant, the paperwork he has to do before dawn, the War Council meeting that he has to make a report at.

She shifts again, and Cullen, embarrassed, whispers, "Forgive me."

Lavellan leans back so that her face is tilted back towards his, and in the moonlight he can make out a bit of her expression. "For?"

Even he can only level a look at her, for the obvious press of his hardened cock against the back of her thigh. 

Lavellan stares at him, for a moment, and then bends one knee so that it's facing upward, making a tent of their blankets. Cullen freezes, because of the look on Lavellen's face, and because, in this position, Cullen could slip himself inside her from behind. She seems intent on it, in fact, by the way that her left hand reaches back to grab his hip and pulls him closer. Without meaning to he thrusts, small, just to get a little bit of friction, and his ears don't quite believe that the Inquisitor clearly likes it. He does it again, carefully, and she shows her approval again with a soft cry. Again, and again, he tests the practically uncharted waters with little thrusts that feel too damn good against his cock, still in his trousers. His heartbeat quickens. Lavellen makes no move to stop him, instead she pulls him closer to her even still.

He makes a move to push her leggings down so he can slip in from behind, slow, slow enough so that they can stop this before it goes too far, except Lavellan seems to sense it, because she yanks everything down to her thighs in seconds and spreads her legs again so he’s got plenty of room. She grabs at his trousers, too, like they really are about to do this despite the fact that it's too cold to take off all their clothing completely and come out from underneath his blankets. His cock springs free once his laces are undone and he wraps his left hand around the base to guide the tip to the warmth between her legs. Cullen drags himself up and down the length of her slit a few times and Lavellan mewls softly at the contact.

She's warm and so wet he practically slides in until he's buried, with a little pause for adjustment, but both he and Lavellan moan at the fit. He shuts his eyes tightly against the sudden frenzy in his chest, trying to breathe, trying to convince himself that this isn't a dream, except he's never quite dreamt the sheer warmth radiating from inside her or the tightness that grips him and the pull that starts at the friction. Cullen starts thrusting shallow, gentle, until he's coated in her wetness and the slide becomes easier. He wraps one of his hands around the leg that she has bent up and pulls it higher, the angle becoming better and letting him slide deeper in. He groans loudly, voice breaking.

Lavellan is eager for him. She meets every gentle thrust with a harder push of her own, she turns her head back towards him as much as their position allows, so that Cullen can see the arousal written all over her expression, the way that her eyes have gone lidded. She pushes against him, sliding further up his cock and Cullen sees stars. She breathes out, " _Cullen_."

His hips snap automatically and she grabs at his arm in surprise. Every thrust hits against something building and building at the base of his spine. Each moan slipping out of her mouth is an octave higher than the last and her head’s thrown back against his chest and _Maker_ , he’s getting close too. The blanket slips down his torso but Cullen can't even feel the cold, he's too close. He must sound like an animal, is fucking into her sweet core like an animal, even though he's trying to keep his head.

"I'm," he starts, but he's struggling enough just breathing, let alone getting words to form. His thrusts slow but get harder, more force behind them. "I'm going to—"

She cries out again, higher, and higher, in time with each of his thrusts. His balls start to tighten and he knows what's coming: it's been too long, he should have, he should have taken himself in hand before tonight, because he hasn't even gotten to her pleasure yet— and then he's coming, seed shooting out in three huge spurts. His orgasm seems to pull every nerve in his body down to the base of his cock, and he's _still_ coming as his toes curl against the sheets. 

He's breathing hard, disbelieving that that's just happened, that he just came, he just came  _inside_ the Inquisitor, that his cock is going limp still buried in her heat. There's sweat against his skin, and against his chest. Come to think of it, some of it is probably her's. "I'm sorry." 

Lavellan, breathing equally as hard, pert chest bouncing slightly with the force of her inhale. "What for?"

Part of him wants to slide himself out from her heat, but another, much more vocal part of him wants to enjoy it just a little bit longer. "A Gentleman would have pulled out before he spilled himself," he says with a frown. "Especially without permission."

"I have suffered from much worse, Commander," Lavellan tells him, and it might be the way that she says his title, or the look on her face, but Cullen gets the distinct impression that she hasn't suffered at all. She does gently extract him from her center, and turns so that she's laying flat on her back, facing him, instead of pressed against his chest. Her gaze flickers down to his lips as her fingertips touch against his chin. "As it stands, I'm quite enjoying the way your seed feels in me."

Cullen's mind blanks. He struggles for words, mostly because his mind hasn't recovered from his orgasm, and this certainly doesn't help to get it back on track. And yet, "Are you, are you not worried—"

" _Tu'enansal_ ," she tells him, and Cullen has to blink. "I think you call it moon-tea? I've been on it since I was old enough to bleed."

Ah. He should— he should have thought of that. He should have thought to ask in the first place. He is not a young Templar, anymore. He should have been better at this.

But Lavellan cleans herself with her shirt, which will surely be dirty by morning, and tucks herself back into his arms, where the cool air can't reach them. After a time of just wondering how all of this has happened in such a whirlwind, Cullen falls asleep to the feeling of her feet, which never seem to stop stroking at his calves, and the way that her cold hands press themselves against his shirt. He does not have a nightmare, and he sleeps deeper than he has since he left Kirkwall.

They do not spend every night together. They can't afford to, it's imperative that they keep this, whatever it is, a secret. They both agree that it is, that there's too many people that want to hurt them, and too much at stake. Leliana probably already knows, Cullen can't do anything to stop that, but Leliana probably knows the value of keeping this information to herself and to her informants. Leliana isn't who Cullen is concerned with.

But even still, he is the Commander of the Inquisition, and Lavellan is the Inquisitor: there are nights where neither of them make it to their own respective beds until sunrise has started brightening the horizon. And sometimes, when they do manage to steal away to his bed, all they really do is what people usually do in a bed: sleep. That first night happens again, and again, always in secret. But they manage.

Granted, the long separations make it worse. Even a less-serious trip to the Hinterlands or Crestwood takes upwards of a week, let alone any of the larger expeditions that take time to complete once the Inquisitor has arrived. She tracks down Red Lyrium shipments and spends two weeks clearing the Fallow Mire, returning a whole battalion of missing troops to him. But by the time she returns, it's been a month since Cullen has laid eyes on her.

She summons the War Council immediately and does not leave his sight until new commands have been given. Cullen does his absolute best to appear nonchalant, he doesn't let his gaze linger on the Inquisitor's face for longer than absolutely necessary, he doesn't cross around the table and take her in his arms even though it's been twenty-seven days, he doesn't capture her lips with his and take them to the nearest dark corner. He doesn't take in the bruises on her arms or the cut on her cheek, or the undeniable look of someone that hasn't slept well in some time. He keeps his eyes on the Table and answers questions when asked, tries not to let her steal his breath away with one of her looks. An hour passes, then two, and the sun sets over the mountains just outside the Council Chamber's windows.

"That will be all for tonight, I think," Lavellan finally tells them. "I'm in a sorry need for a bath. And about four days' worth of sleep."

Cullen tries not to show his twitching fingers, and bows along with the other Advisors as they all bid Lavellan a good night. He tries to linger as innocently as he possibly can. It's late, even for them, it isn't completely unbelievable that they would all head straight to bed in their respective sleeping quarters. Maybe no one will notice that he doesn't follow them out into the hallway and into the Main Hall. Maybe no one will notice that the Inquisitor probably won't make it up to her tower tonight.

There's a tell-tale sound of a heavy door sliding into the locking mechanism, and Cullen gives up all pretense and nearly knocks over half the pieces on the board to get to her as fast as possible.

"I want you _in_ me," she tells him. She shoves his hand down her trousers while she tears off his furs, backs them both up so that their legs hit against the table's edge. Cullen the Templar would have blushed so hard he wouldn't be able to see straight, but Cullen the Commander groans at the slick that now coats his fingers and proceeds to rub tight circles around her clit until she starts begging him for her release, with an increasing pitch to her sweet cries. He trails open-mouthed kisses against her lips as she cries out and thrusts against his hand, she's clawing against him as his cock hardens. He'll fuck her against the War Table if he has to, he doesn't care. The image it calls up is almost as sweet as the way her core feels around his fingers as he presses into her. Her spread on top of the maps, dripping wet and calling for him. Cullen moans at the thought and thrusts twice against her hip just to give himself some brief relief at the way it's building in his spine. Lavellan cries out at that, too, it seems like all he has to do is touch her, here, against her clit, and she's begging for release. It's the roughest they've ever been. 

In no time, seconds, it seems, Lavellan's clit pulses around his thumb and Cullen's cock is currently ram-rod hard against his thigh. He doesn't care, though, he doesn't care at all. Her little noises of pleasure as she comes back down again fill the room as Cullen whispers, "I missed you."

"And I you," she tells him, inhaling like she hasn't taken a breath in years. "I couldn't wait any longer."

And Maker preserve him, Lavellan is just as happy to attend to him as he was to her.

It isn't always like that: desperation and secrecy filling their every coupling. It doesn't happen as often, because of time constraints and the need for secrecy.

For once, Lavellan stays in Skyhold for more than three days at a time, and unfortunately Cullen's particular affliction chooses this time to rear its ugly head. It starts with the loss of his appetite, which she of course notices. Then he stops sleeping. When he drops one of the pieces at the War Table because his hands have started shaking so badly, he takes his leave. And Lavellan, being Lavellan, follows him. She holds him up when his knees give out halfway to his tower and soothes his oversensitive skin, soothes him when he wakes from a horrible nightmare about the Ferelden Circle and whispers a mixture of elven words and his words into his ears that he isn’t quite lucid enough to remember. He tells her all of it, in his fever. All of his past. And his decision.

“I’m sorry,” the Inquisitor tells him. “Ar dareth’al ma.”

He can’t remember what that means, he never knew, but he can’t find a way to ask. The withdrawal has left a foul taste in his mouth and leaves him careening sideways. Everything is wrong, his bones feel unbound, he feels like he'll split his skin apart at any second and come spilling out, like he's too big and too small at the same time. His skin is too hot and too cold, he's sweating heavily but still shivering like he's out in the snow. More than anything he just wants the lyrium: and then remembers what all this is for and becomes angry at himself for his weakness.

When Cullen wakes the next morning, he’s safely in his bed, extra pillows and blankets piled high around him. His blankets have the distinct impression of a second body, curled up next to his, and a luke-warm compress falls into his lap when he tries to sit up. He slept so long that the Inquisitor is long gone. He isn't completely back to normal, or as normal as the lack of lyrium ever leaves him, but he feels like he could get out of bed and get some of his paperwork done, at least, which is a significant improvement from yesterday. 

Of course, that afternoon, the Inquisitor gets summoned to the Hinterlands. Because of a Dragon threatening newly reclaimed Redcliffe. Cullen barely makes it down to see her off, climbing up onto her Hart with Cassandra and Dorian and Varric already mounted on their horses.

There isn't even much he can say in front of others, but he tries to pour that into his expression anyway.  _Go_ , and  _be safe_ , and  _come back to me soon_. 

He's never waited for updates as he does the next week and a half: every scout that enters into Skyhold knows to bring the missive directly to him, no matter what time of day it is or what he's doing. All Cullen can think of is how ironic it would be to have the Inquisitor get felled by a dragon, a regular dragon, at that, not even the Archdemon that the Elder One has at his command. But most of the missives are non-related things. Val Royeaux is holding another fetê that the Inquisitor has been invited to. Ferelden's King Alistair is having an issue with an apparent Venatori plot in his court, and requests their aid. Troop movements and supply lines. The Inquisitor did arrive safely in the Hinterlands, Cullen reads, and has spent the last two days carefully laying traps around the dragon's nest.

"The Inquisitor should attend the fetê, obviously," Josephine decides over the War Table. "Making appearances in front of the right crowds is just as important as winning the right battles."

Leliana frowns down at the piece for Val Royeaux. "It's in ten days, Josie," she tells the Ambassador. "Even if she were to leave the Hinterlands tomorrow morning and bypass us completely, she'd never make it."

Josephine frowns and turns to Cullen, probably to suggest that they somehow make an appearance at the fetê in Lavellen's place, and he is so opposed to the prospect of leaving Skyhold while the Inquisitor is facing down a Maker-forsaken dragon that he immediately bites, "If you can't spin a tale about how our Inquisitor is too busy saving hundreds of innocent lives from a fire-breathing dragon to attend a party, I will eat my own armor."

They will not attend the fetê. Josephine sends one of their representatives in their stead and purposely leaks the news to Val Royeaux's peasantry that the Inquisitor is fighting a High Dragon in the Hinterlands, narrowly escaping with her life, so that by the night of the fetê it is all anybody is talking about, according to Leliana's network. Nobody remembers that the Inquisition had to turn down a direct invite from a Noble House. 

Cullen's taken to receiving his morning updates from his Lieutenants on the western ramparts. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the western ramparts will be the first to spot the Inquisitor's party, which should be arriving any day now, if her letter is to believed. He listens to his people give him reports about their troop movements and supplies and new recruits that need to be accessed and trained, all the while keeping his eye on the camps below. Funnily enough he's in the middle of running through defensive stances with his new recruits, sweaty and tired, when the horns sound. Most of Skyhold comes alive and rushes out into the courtyard for the inner circle's return, and Cullen is no exception. But he, like Leliana and Josephine, are expected to wait up on the landing to the main stair instead of in the crowd like everyone else. He feels a bit strange that he's not in his armor. But he can see her climbing up the stairs, and she's  _here_ , and she's  _whole_ , and he feels a little bit sick to his stomach with relief. He shoves it down as best he can and tries to put on the face of a Commander that is welcoming back his Inquisitor.

As he expects, when the Inquisitor reaches their platform, she smiles and turns to him and says, "Well," and pauses. "I'm alive."

If he could take her in his arms and kiss her senseless, Cullen would. Secrecy be damned. "You always seem so surprised."

Josephine has prepared a small feast for that night, though nobody knew that the Inquisitor would return so early. Still, Josephine rallies her preparations as well as Cullen could ever rally his troops, which is how he finds himself seated on the Inquisitor's right at the head table. Leliana is seated on her left, while Josephine is up and about, too busy to stay seated in any one place. Iron Bull and Varric do the honors of telling the story to the whole room, which leaves Lavellan smiling and nodding along and interjecting bits of the story that they forget, or calling them out when they blow something significantly out of proportion. 

Cullen's content to just enjoy the food and the company, and enjoys the fact that other than the occasional question, people seem to have completely forgotten his existence, for once. It's a breath of relief, honestly, after so long having command of Skyhold. And even if he can't physically react to Lavellan, he feels better just being near. Perhaps late tonight, or early in the morning, they can find a moment to be alone. Even if it's just to hold each other again, or to stand shoulder to shoulder on the ramparts. He doesn't need anything else.

Until he feels the Inquisitor's fingers sliding up his thigh. Cullen freezes, knowing immediately that she's up to something. She wouldn't, would she? Here? In the middle of _everyone_? Granted there's a tablecloth that would hide anything happening on either side of the table, but _here_?

If they weren't at the center of attention, he has half a thought to snatch her fingers away from his length and pull them to his lips and and suckle at them, bite at them, lave at them in the way that she prefers his tongue to do along her slit, to torture her the way that she apparently intends to do to him. But he can't do that. Too many people would see. Instead he swallows hard brings the goblet placed in front of him to his mouth, even if he has no intention on drinking the wine. Anything to hide the way his mouth has gone dry.

It doesn't help that there is some part of Cullen that feels a shiver of anticipation of the idea, of Lavellan taking him in her hand and stroking him to completion even as she holds a conversation with Varric and Blackwall. He clears his throat and tries to clear his head, too, but Cullen has got himself into a bit of a problem: the imagery that he's provided himself is hindering his cause just as much as it's helping hers. His cock stiffens until he's fully erect right underneath her fingers. He knows it, and he doesn't even need to glance over at the Inquisitor to know that she can feel it, too. He doesn't look in her direction but he feels the way that her hand stills and a single finger traces the head of his cock and drags it up the length. 

 _Andraste_ save him, he wants to rut into her fist. He's in public, how can he even  _think_ of something so deplorable? The man he had been three, four years ago would have scoffed at the very idea of such a shameless display. Now, it makes his cock harden.

It reaches the point where he slips his right hand down into his lap as best as he can and stills her fingers, entwines them with his own and shifts them to safer territories. Eventually he is going to have to get up from this table as the fetê ends, as it appears to be doing in short order, and he'd honestly prefer to do so without having to hide his half-stiff cock.  

He chances a look at the Inquisitor, and she looks at him. Her fingers tighten in his and she smiles, and the moment passes. They'll continue such behavior later, but for now? They have duties to attend to.  

She does not come to him that night, though Cullen half expects her to. It's something of a tradition, almost, the night that she returns from a trip. Especially because of her behavior at the banquet. He's tempted to climb up to her bedroom in the tower but it's much easier to sneak into his tower than it is to sneak into hers. He thinks about it as he leans on the ramparts, facing inwards instead of looking out, watches the way that the candles in her window burn until late into the night. There is a part of him that desperately wants to go. But another, louder part of him knows that his paperwork is piling up again, and her's probably even more so. They have their responsibilities to this Inquisition, and both of them have always put that before, well, whatever _this_ is.  

In the morning, he trains his new recruits in the courtyard again, bright and early before breakfast is served from the kitchens. In the beginning these recruits had been nothing more than the desperate and the poor, or the devout with little fighting experience, but since the fall of Adamant, they've had actual fighters join their ranks. They have a few ex-templars, and circle mages, even a few Chevaliers, along with Bull's gang. All of them help with training those with less experience, but Cullen takes a personal interest in each new round. Training new recruits is what he's done almost his entire life, after all. It's one of the only things that comes naturally.

"I don't know why I've been dragged out here at this ungodly hour," says someone, from Cullen's right, as he instructs pairs in the ring. He turns to find Dorian, somehow looking irritatingly put together despite the early hour. "But there are muscular men fighting, so I'll allow it."

More than half of Cullen's recruits this round are, in fact, female, so he raises an eyebrow as he rests a leg on the lowest wooden beam of the fence. "Is there a lack of that, in the Imperium?"

Dorian joins him at the fence. "Sweaty, muscular men? Heavens, no, but the fashion is to be clean shaven, tanned, and well-oiled. There's something to be said about the ruggedness of you southerners."

Whatever Cullen was going to respond with is stolen from his mind as one of the recruits, the one closest to them, blocks a high-swing completely wrong, in a way that likely would have cost him his own head. Cullen hops over the railing to correct them, perhaps with a little more force than necessary while some of the ex-Templars look on. By the time he crosses over the barrier again, a bit of a crowd has gathered as the smell of breakfast fills the air. Now that Cullen's thinking about it, he may have some sent to his tower so he could actually get some work done.

"It does seem like Cassandra would be much better suited to this particular activity, compared to you," Dorian tells him. And then holds his hands out in what could possibly a peaceful gesture. "No offense intended, obviously, Commander."

Cullen can't help but smile. "Cassandra is who I send in when they need to be punished. She'll drive them through exercises until their blisters have blisters and their hands bleed."

He should know. It's one of the few things that grounds him after a nightmare, or when the tremors start up again, or when he begins to doubt whether or not he's still in reality and not some fade-dream. After which he is bruised and tired but whole enough so that the aches in his bones ground him. He knows that when Lavellan inevitably shows up, concerned about his absence from a meeting or from dinner, that it’s really her. Cullen winces. He's kept that part of his mind locked up tightly since last night. He hasn't allowed himself to dwell on the fact that she did not come— though she always comes, the night of her return. 

Cullen clears his throat, in either case, and directs his second to take his place leading the drills. "You heading to breakfast, Dorian?"

"Ugh, of course not," Dorian pretends to gag. " _Morning people_. Andraste preserve me. No, it's back to my secluded library corner for me." He waves like Cullen would imagine a king would wave, very flourishy and very _Dorian_. "Oh, and," Dorian adds, turning back. "Do let me know when you  _do_ sick Cassandra on these poor sods. I want to watch."

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so. I just replayed Inquisition and came back to this fic and I just— started fixing it? And adding... more? And anyway it ended up being like 10k longer than the original so I'm breaking this into two parts mazel tov
> 
> ignore me
> 
> [tumblr](http://www.valorious.tumblr.com)


End file.
